No One Ever Asked Read online

  This heightened the intrigue.

  Paige led Jubilee and several others over to investigate; they all studied the sheeted object in the same way her children studied wrapped presents under the Christmas tree.

  Anaya didn’t linger.

  She gave Camille, the Covingtons, and Leif Royce a friendly enough nod, then headed back toward her desk, where she struck up a conversation with Nia’s mother.

  “They should stick with their own kind.”

  The words belonged to Leif, and he didn’t mumble them either. He spoke so loud, in fact, there was a hiccup in the conversation. Anaya and Nia’s mother stopped talking.

  “This district is going down the drain.”

  “Excuse me,” Nick said. “What did you just say?”

  Camille could feel her face catching fire—a molten heat that crept up her neck, pooled in her cheeks, and spread into her ears.

  “I think I spoke clear enough.”

  “Yeah, you did. I guess I was hoping I misheard.”

  Camille imagined that old show, Lost in Space, and the robot that flashed red. Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! When it came to men like Leif, it was best not to engage. But nobody had given Nick the memo.

  “It says on the district website that everyone is welcome, regardless of religion, race, and ability.”

  “I’m not the website.”

  Several parents watched the exchange, shuffling their feet nervously.

  “That’s obvious. But last I checked, this is a Crystal Ridge school. Which means your rude comments aren’t welcome here.”

  Leif hitched his crossed arms up a notch, his eyes narrowing into slits.

  Camille looked at Jen.

  Someone needed to tell her that Nick should tread carefully.

  Twenty-Two

  Mama said the quickest way to get over your nerves was by praying over the people who were making you nervous. Right then, it was a bunch of seven-year-olds. So as the wall clock ticked down to the morning bell and the air all around smelled of fresh pencil shavings, Anaya walked from one desk to the next, running her fingers over each nameplate as she prayed.

  Her fingers stayed longest on Gavin Royce—the boy with the snotty nose and a father with a heart full of contempt. She reminded herself that he didn’t choose his dad any more than a person could choose where they were born. All these kids in her classroom had been dealt a particular hand, and that hand would determine so much of their future. So much of who they became.

  Unless…

  “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

  The quote came from The Lorax, one of the many books her father used to read to her when she was little and Darius hadn’t yet come to be. Daddy loved books. He would put his ear to their spines like they were whispering things. Sometimes he would open them and smell the pages.

  “You smell that, Anaya?” he’d say.

  “Smell what, Daddy?”

  “Possibility.”

  He studied religion and literature at Howard and often said it was the latter which saved him. He was joking, of course. It was Jesus who saved him. Daddy knew that. He just liked to get Mama riled up.

  Daddy had his own Lorax philosophy, only it didn’t come in a catchy rhyme. Be the change where you’re at.

  Anaya was pretty sure he meant South Fork, but she wasn’t there. For better or worse—God’s sovereign will or because she lived in a fallen world—this was where she was. So with her father’s words clutched determinedly to her heart and a fresh round of butterflies swooping in her stomach, she walked down the wide, sunny hallway toward the commons, where all twelve classes sat in neat lines behind their grade-colored dots.

  Red for kindergarten. Orange for first grade. Yellow for second. She glanced down the row of Yellow 2, doing roll call in her mind. It didn’t take a minute to realize that three students were missing. All three were her transfer kids.

  Nia. Dante. Zeke.

  Her attention swept over the other lines, then landed on Principal Kelly, who walked toward her. “The bus with the O’Hare kids went to the wrong school. As soon as they get here, I’ll escort them to your classroom.”

  He moved along before she could ask any questions—like how long? And where had they gone? And had they gotten off the bus? Did anyone help them as they stood in the crowd, confused because wherever they were didn’t look like the right place? It made the knots in Anaya’s stomach pull tighter.

  She invited the students who were sitting in line to follow her. As soon as they reached the classroom and found their desks, Paige Amelia Gray’s hand shot up in the air.

  “Yes, Paige?”

  “When do we get to see what’s under that sheet?”

  “Soon.”

  “Can I pull it off when it’s time?”

  “I wanna do it!” Gavin interrupted, setting off a chorus of objections.

  Anaya held up her hands—a call for quiet—and began walking them through the morning routine. Backpacks in cubbies. Papers from their take-home folder in the apple-red inbox tray. Popsicle sticks out of the attendance cup, into the hot or cold lunch cup. It was a much tamer way of taking attendance than some of the teachers she had through the years—her favorite being Mr. Vogel, sixth grade homeroom, who would call everyone’s name like a drill sergeant. They’d stand at attention and yell, “Here, here!” Followed by their own special handshake Mr. Vogel made with each of them at the beginning of the term. It worked like magic. Whatever stress Anaya had carried into the classroom during sixth grade slowly fell away. She grew up putting her daddy on a pedestal. That was the year he nearly got usurped.

  She didn’t think that kind of roll call would translate to a place like this, so she stuck with the cups and herded the children back to their seats, where they would begin each day with a writing prompt. Today’s? A summer memory. She was careful not to say a fun summer memory. She wanted her students to feel free to write whatever memory was on their hearts—whether it was fun or not.

  As sharpened number-two pencils scratch-scratch-scratched against paper, Anaya stared at the attendance form on her computer screen, immobilized by the three Popsicle sticks that hadn’t been touched, when a knock sounded on her door.

  Principal Kelly stood outside with Zeke, Dante, and Nia.

  The little girl’s eyes were puffy and red.

  Like a mama duck, Anaya gathered them to her bosom and squeezed them tight, then helped them get situated, eager for the rest of the class to stop staring. By the time Nia sat down, she’d developed a loud case of the hiccups.

  It was only natural then that when the time finally came to uncover the mystery object, Anaya chose Nia to be her special helper. Several kids objected—Paige Gray loudest of all—but their excitement to see what was underneath trumped their disappointment at not being picked.

  Nia stood proudly in front of them—the bus fiasco temporarily forgotten as she removed the sheet with a dramatic flourish.

  The class broke into a round of rapturous excitement, making all the time Anaya spent wrapping that box in tinfoil worth it. Every single second.

  “What is it?” a little Indian girl named Aaishi asked.

  “This, my young superheroes, is our very own time machine.”

  “Get outta town!” Gavin Royce exclaimed.

  And something inside Anaya’s heart went soft and warm.

  The tension that filled her room after Gavin’s father’s words on Unpack Your Backpack night was nowhere to be felt. Here, in her classroom, nobody cared about transfer students. These children weren’t threatened by South Fork. They were just a bunch of seven-year-olds who still wanted to believe that it was possible to travel back in time.

  * * *

  A group of girls gathered to jump rope on the playground blacktop. Nia was the star of
the show—the only one who knew how to do double dutch. Several classmates wanted her to teach them how while Paige Gray watched with crossed arms. When it was her turn, the ropes got tangled up in her feet. So she grabbed Jubilee’s hand and the hand of another little girl who wasn’t in Anaya’s class and pulled them away to the monkey bars. Paige was really good at the monkey bars.

  “You’re going to want to keep a close eye on her,” Mrs. Webb said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Her parents recently separated.”

  “Oh.”

  “It came as a huge shock to everyone.”

  Twenty-Three

  That night at the dinner table, Nick asked Jubilee about her first day of school.

  “Who did you eat lunch with?”

  “I don’t remem-ba,” she said with a shrug.

  “Did you sit with Paige?” Jen asked.

  Jubilee shook her head. “She say no.”

  Jen and Nick exchanged a look of concern. Did Paige exclude Jubilee at lunchtime?

  Nick set his fork down. “What do you mean she said no?”

  But Jubilee didn’t extrapolate. She scooped up a bite of rice with her fingers and stuffed it into her mouth. She still wasn’t accustomed to using silverware, especially not when it came to things like rice. And the whole phenomenon of chewing with her mouth closed felt light-years away.

  “We play on da monkey bars,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Who played on the monkey bars?”

  “Paige and me.”

  “Oh.” Jen’s muscles relaxed. “You and Paige played together at recess?”

  Jubilee nodded and reached for the soy sauce.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in another house, Camille and her youngest sat at the kitchen counter, writing out American Girl doll invitations for Paige’s eighth birthday party. This year, Camille had every intention of going all out. If her little girl wanted pony rides, Camille was going to find a way to get them.

  “You know what would be fun?” Camille said. “If you invited party guests to dress up like it’s the 1950s. I could make you a poodle skirt.”

  “Like the one Grandma sent me for Maryellen!” Maryellen was Paige’s favorite American Girl doll, and on every special occasion—even ones that didn’t typically include presents—Camille’s mother sent Paige American Girl doll outfits in the mail. She hated living so far away from her grandchildren. This was her way of compensating. For the Fourth of July, Camille’s mother sent the poodle skirt because Maryellen harkened from the 1950s—an era that would make for an adorable party theme when it came to seven- and eight-year-old girls.

  Paige carefully wrote out Faith’s name on the first invitation.

  “Who else do you want to invite?”

  She began ticking girls off on her fingers. “Hope, Emma, Madison, Avery, Brooklyn, Zoe, Aaishi, Sarah, Violet—”

  “What about Jubilee?”

  Paige scrunched her nose.

  “Paige, honey. I’m sure Jubilee would love to come to your birthday party.”

  “But she sucks on her fingers like a baby, and she eats with her mouth wide open. When she chews, you can see all the food inside.”

  “That’s a silly reason not to invite someone to your party.” Camille reached across her daughter and grabbed the invitation on the top of the stack. “Here, make this one out to Jubilee.”

  * * *

  Paige’s Birthday Party Invitation

  You’re invited to a

  1950s American Girl Party

  to celebrate

  Paige Amelia Gray’s 8th Birthday!

  Saturday, September 22nd

  at 1:00 p.m.

  1246 Ashbury Court in Crystal Ridge

  RSVP to Camille by Mon, Sep 17th: 321-464-2917

  Please bring your favorite doll!

  * * *

  Jen Covington got the job. For the next twelve weeks, while the high school nurse went on maternity leave, she was going to manage the health and well-being of the 456 students at Crystal Ridge High School. She would have to remember to send Camille a thank-you card.

  After her first day of work—Jubilee’s fifth day of school—her daughter excitedly pulled something from her backpack, laying to rest the unease Nick and Jen were beginning to feel whenever their daughter talked about her school day. It was impossible to tell whether or not Jubilee was being excluded.

  “Look what I get!” she said, proudly waving the pink-and-blue party invitation in the air.

  “It was nice that Paige invited her,” Nick said later.

  “Yes, it was.”

  As they huddled around the sink to brush their teeth, neither expressed the concern on both of their minds. How, exactly, would Jubilee handle all the stimulation that came with an eight-year-old’s birthday party?

  * * *

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Paige

  Date: Thursday, September 6

  Dear Ms. Gray,

  I would like to speak with you about something concerning Paige. Please call at your earliest convenience.

  Thanks,

  Anaya Jones

  2nd Grade Teacher

  Kate Richards O’Hare Elementary

  Twenty-Four

  Camille aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud crack. A powerful kick. Her steady hands. And the cathartic release that came with the sight of that bullet hole, exactly where she’d aimed it.

  “How are you doing that?”

  Camille wasn’t sure. She only knew that the instructor had finally moved on from the mind-numbing boredom that was gun law and gun safety to the part she’d been itching to get to—marksmanship. Turned out, Camille was a natural.

  She felt vindicated with every pull of the trigger.

  Take that, Jas, whoever you are.

  Take that, burglar, wherever you are.

  Take that, Neil, you traitorous slimeball.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  She hit the target every time. Maybe not the center of the bull’s-eye, but impressively close.

  “I’m imagining the target is Neil’s head.”

  “Let’s refrain from talking about targets being people’s heads,” the instructor said. His name was Alvin. It didn’t fit him at all. He looked much more like an Ashton or a Channing or a Zac. “At least while you’re in my class.”

  Camille grimaced, mildly apologetic.

  “If you knew her husband, you wouldn’t care,” Kathleen said.

  Flashing one of his deep dimples, Alvin helped Kathleen get set up and take aim. Her shot missed the target entirely.

  She wasn’t a natural.

  “I think you should hire a private investigator. Rick has a list of them, and he’d be happy to share.”

  “I’m not hiring a PI.”

  “Why not?”

  Because her husband wasn’t cheating! He was simply having a small psychotic break, and soon he would come back with profuse apologies and dozens upon dozens of roses and she would make him pay, but only for a little while. By this time next year, the whole thing would be nothing more than a distant, slightly perplexing, sometimes humorous memory.

  “You should think about the kids,” Kathleen said. “If he files, you’re going to want to have ammunition.”

  “He would never try to take the kids away from me.”

  “You didn’t think he’d ever leave, either.” Kathleen delivered the words gently, but they still made her ulcers ache.

  Camille was positive she had them. Either that or stomach cancer. Her symptoms aligned quite frighteningly with those listed on WebMD. She chose to think optimistically and diagnosed herself with ulcers instead.
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  She certainly had enough stress in her life for them—with Neil taking their children on exciting excursions every other weekend, leaving her alone to lick her wounds, then dropping them off afterward like she wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout. Paige, asking when Daddy was coming home. Austin, folding more and more into himself, and Taylor, growing more antagonistic. It couldn’t continue. They couldn’t remain in this limbo Neil had thrown them into. They needed answers. Yet she was terrified to push for any. She was terrified that if she did, he’d give her an answer she didn’t want, and they’d go from being Rick’s friends to Rick’s clients. Every time she thought about it, her stomach took a quick step off a sharp cliff.

  Right now, they were still sharing a bank account, credit cards. What would happen if he divorced her? Would she be humiliated, jilted, and destitute? Yesterday afternoon the doorbell rang unexpectedly, and Camille had been so illogically convinced it was going to be a man in a black suit serving her dissolution papers that she’d hidden in the bathroom and hadn’t answered.

  Camille placed her arms exactly as Alvin instructed and lined up with the target. This time the bullet sailed directly into the center of the bull’s-eye.

  Alvin whistled.

  The two women took a seat at the picnic table, their guns locked on safety as he walked out to adjust the targets.

  “Juanita Fine called the police on me yesterday,” Kathleen said.

  “What?”

  “Rebecca told me about it on the phone last night. Patrick was laughing like a hyena in the background. He thinks Juanita is hilarious. Apparently, I parked in her grass.”

  “Did you?”

  “I parked in front of her curb. Maybe a hair on the curb. I don’t know; I was in a rush. The tires were definitely not in her grass. And anyway, that part of her lawn doesn’t even belong to her. It belongs to the city. That woman needs to take a chill pill.”